On the way to work, crammed into the bullet-like carriage of the speed train, the photographer once again imagined those seven sitting in a row. The composition was up to him—one minuscule speck of creativity allowed on the job—and he mentally shuffled and reshuffled them again.
He prided himself on his spatial awareness and eye for color, secretly glad that none of his photos had ever been enhanced by machines. The human brain and human hands were still the best.
“Central Penitentiary,” the mechanical voice announced, and he hurried out onto the vast platform, where the line of his colleagues was already moving towards the prison shuttle.
The condemned waited for him in the special photo zone, bright and airy. Today, the light streaming through the humongous windows was especially good, and the photographer smiled. The prisoners were executed privately, so his picture—due to be transmitted tomorrow to the gigantic electronic screens throughout the country—was the only evidence of their deaths and a reminder of their crimes.
Most people could no longer read, so the names of the condemned were omitted from the screens. The criminals did not interest the photographer in the slightest, so he never spoke to them, limiting communication to simple directions. On their last morning, those about to be executed received new shirts, color-coded according to their crimes.
Starting from the left, he grouped those in maroon, for marital infidelity, together. The prisoners weren’t allowed to touch each other, but the look in their eyes said it all.
“Moving on,” the photographer said. “Yellow and light blue, please.”
These two had betrayed their gender and entered illicit liaisons. The photographer idly wondered what had happened to their other halves but chided himself for such recklessness. The room might have been equipped with mind-reading machines, and nowadays, even thoughts could bring you to the gallows.
He decided to put the elderly man in the light green shirt between two sullen teenagers in black, which was the code for insulting the government. The old geezer raised his hand.
“Should I remove my glasses?”
Someone always asked a mundane question during the shoot. The criminals just wanted to hear a human voice.
“Not at all,” the photographer assured him. “You’re fine like that.”
Light green meant clandestine reading, writing, and publishing. The old man leaned forward, and his strong voice startled the photographer.
“We shall this day light such a candle, as I trust shall never be put out.”
The photographer had exactly two minutes before the arrival of soldiers with guns, so he cut straight to the chase.
“Excellent,” he said, raising the camera. “Say cheese, please.”
The End
Nelly Shulman has published numerous short stories in literary magazines and anthologies and authored two collections of short stories titled “The Voice” and “The Drought.” She is a member of The Society of Authors (UK).